Betrayed
by Kingdom in Flames
Summary: Rose Pallas grew up in District Eleven as the mayor's daughter, hated because she was rich. So when the first Quarter Quell rolls along and the Capital announces that the districts can choose their own tributes, SHE is the one elected to die...
1. Prologue

_Mrs. Pallas_

I stared at the dark screen of the television set in our family's living room, wishing my mind could be that blank. It would be less painful for all of us, the whole family, if thought didn't exist. If our own natures didn't force us to dwell on the terrible fact that looked us in the eye now: Suddenly our own daughter was the victim of the city we had served for so many decades. I remembered every year of service I and my husband had committed myself to—long before the twenty-five years that we'd been the governing family of District Eleven, one of the poorer districts of our nation, Panem. We had served all our lives; twenty-five years ago only marked the beginning of our recognition for that service…

I remembered it clearly, too—the bloody war that ensued between the outlying districts and the capitol, the constant fear that we wouldn't survive, the humiliation as the rebels outwitted each of our weapons against them—and then the victory, the realization that there was no more need for fear, the triumph as the Capitol announced it to the world, the smugness as the government set up the new rules and regulations, the taxes and laws, and most humiliating of all—the Hunger Games. _Every district, all twelve of you surviving districts, will give us two of your children every year, and those children will fight to the death in an arena until there's only one left while the rest of us watch and laugh and call for more blood. And if you refuse to send your tributes, we'll blow you up like we blew up your beloved neighbor, District Thirteen_. It was atrocious, of course. Shocking when it first came out. But in the Capitol, they had quickly adapted, and now the Hunger Games were the highlights of the year there.

And then my husband was set as mayor for District Eleven, and we moved out of the Capitol to live here, where although our children's names were always put into the drawing for the Hunger Games—the _reaping_, it's called—there was never really any chance they would be picked, because we, as the mayor's family, are rich and don't need to trade extra slips of paper with our names on them for grain and oil. But now it's the Twenty-Fifth Hunger Games, the first Quarter Quell, a _special_ game that comes around only every twenty-five years…so there's a new twist flung in to make it even more interesting and exciting for all the bloodthirsty viewers back in the Capitol. The districts get to vote the people that go into the Games.

Our daughter, Rose, was rich. She wasn't hungry. She never had to sign up for a year's worth of grain and oil in exchange for extra slips of paper with her name on them in the reaping. She'd never really been in the running. She'd never had to worry. Every other kid between the ages of twelve and eighteen had. So naturally, the entire district hated her…and that meant that she was going into the Hunger Games, because there was no way the district would vote for anyone else for female tribute.

It would have been different if she were only twelve. Nobody liked to see a twelve-year-old go, and to vote for one would be like killing the child yourself. Abominable. But Rose was eighteen, so this was the last year she was legally allowed into the reaping. Nobody was going to vote for anyone under seventeen this year. And that meant that in a few months, when the Hunger Games started…Rose Pallas was going into the arena. And Rose Pallas, the girl who never even stepped on bugs because she didn't want to hurt them, was going to die there.

No matter how I tried to stop them, the tears ignored me, and my face became a flood.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

_Rose Pallas_

I woke up in the morning and wished I could stop time, freeze it and live forever in that moment. It _was_ a nice moment—with droplets of dew clinging to the grass outside and the fresh smell of breakfast downstairs—but that wasn't really the reason. Today was the reaping. Today was the last day I would ever be home here alive. Today was the reaping, when one boy and one girl would be picked to go to the Hunger Games. Normally, I didn't have anything to worry about. But this year was a Quarter Quell—the _first_ Quarter Quell. So District Eleven got to choose their own tributes—and guess what? _Everyone_ hated me. Why? Because I was the Mayor's daughter and I wasn't hungry and wasn't spending my whole life trying to survive. Because I _had_ a life. So this was the perfect chance for them to kill me off. Perfect, right?

Yeah. For them. But me—I wasn't one of those snotty rich brats that doesn't care about anyone else. I'd spent my whole life trying to imagine some way to end the Hunger Games, to overcome the Capitol. Not that any of the things I imagined would ever work. And I'd been writing—I loved writing. Mostly poetry, uplifting poetry that everyone enjoyed and said made them feel like maybe things wouldn't be so bad forever. And I was always the one helping people when they needed it, and I worked in the orchards just like everybody else even though my family didn't need the money and I could've just stayed home doing whatever the hell I wanted. But no matter how much I did for the District, these people would never stop hating me. And that was why I was going to die sometime in the next few weeks.

What better reason could I have to wanted to stay in bed for the rest of my life just so I could avoid today? I would sell my soul to the devil for a chance to just skip this day and continue on tomorrow. But it seemed that Satan, however much he enjoyed turning my life into hell, didn't seem too keen on showing his face and making deals anymore. So I had to get out of bed and face my own death eventually.

"You're finally up," Mom said as I stumbled down the stairs. "The reaping isn't until two…You have time to get ready." Get ready. What was I supposed to do, get all dressed up so the Capitol could see me as a ditzy little girl that thought being cute was better than surviving? It wasn't like it would help anything. Unless maybe my strategy was to make everyone think I was some stupid kid that didn't even understand what the world was about, so maybe they would ignore me for a while before killing me off. But that _wasn't_ my strategy—I didn't even have a strategy.

"Yeah," I said. "Sure." I plopped myself down in front of a plate of bacon and eggs. This was why people hated me, I reflected as I shoveled breakfast into my mouth, barely tasting it. Some people would kill to get as much food in a week as I ate every day. But what was I supposed to do? Give it up? Set up town feedings? They would hate me even more if they thought I pitied them. And anyway, they wouldn't be able to hate me for much longer. No one ever hates someone after they die. Then it's all good memories and nice sayings, condolences for the family and as soon as the dirt covers the coffin it's out of sight, out of mind.

"Rose, are you okay? You haven't been yourself lately," Mom said, sounding concerned and looking like she wasn't enjoying the awkward silence.

"I'm okay. I'm fine, actually," I snapped. "I'm going to die on TV within a month and the Capitol is going to cheer, and you're going to cry and then everybody's going to forget about me after my funeral because they don't want to remember that they're the ones that elected me for that. Yeah, Mom. I'm feeling better than I have in a long time." I didn't mean to lose my temper, and I knew it stung her to hear it out loud even though it was what everyone was thinking, but I couldn't take it anymore. She turned away and I felt even worse, losing my appetite. Most people, in this situation, would probably just leave the table and say they weren't hungry. But there were starving kids younger than me at school. I saw them every day. And anyway, it was one of the last meals I would eat here in District Eleven. It would be really bitchy of me to walk away from it.

Instead, I just kept eating, wondering if there would be enough time before they took me away to apologize to Mom. I hoped there would be—right now, I was too tense to say anything without sounding crueler than I ever had in my life. I finished as quickly as I could and hurried back upstairs to think. Not that it did much—I'd been thinking about the same thing since the president read the card that said the districts would elect their own tributes this year, and I hadn't been able to find any way out of this situation. Volunteers wouldn't be allowed this year—not that anyone would volunteer to replace me on death row even if they had the choice. And no matter how much I tried to convince myself that the only way to survive the Hunger Games was to kill the others, it made me feel sick. I would fight like everyone else when I had to, but I would hate myself for it. And did I really _want _to survive with that on my conscience for the rest of my life?

The hours dragged slowly, but not slowly enough. My legs moved like they were made of iron as they herded me into the city square. This reaping was so different from all the others I'd been to. Usually, I was the relaxed one, the one that wasn't _happy_, but wasn't terrified for my life, either, while everyone else was quaking in their boots until the moment passed. Today, no one else was terrified. They knew it was me. They looked at me solemnly as I walked by, and I wondered if they were regretting their ballots. They weren't bad people, I knew—and even though they hated me, I knew they believed that no one deserved the Hunger Games. If I didn't know better, I might think they actually wanted to take back what they did. But of course they didn't. If it wasn't me, it would be someone else—someone that more people would miss.

I was eighteen, so I was herded into the front of the crowd, into a little roped-off area with all the other kids in my grade. I recognized most of them. I had even helped some of them with homework when they didn't understand something—not that we were getting such a great education, but still. I genuinely liked some of them. But they all fell silent when I walked in, so I knew what they were talking about—the vote. And the person they'd all voted for had just walked in.

"Hey," I said glumly.

"Hey, Rose," one of the girls, Skylar, said awkwardly. "We were just…um…"

"It's okay," I said, forcing myself not to raise my voice. "I know I'm going today. You don't have to pretend you didn't all vote for me." None of them said anything or even looked me in the eye. They seemed ashamed. I didn't see what the point in that was. The votes were already in, and they had voted for me. It was over, for them at least. And I was saved from feeling obligated to say that I didn't blame them (even though I did) because then my dad mounted the podium and began his mandatory recant of the history of Panem and the reminder of why we have the Hunger Games. He had never enjoyed that speech—he used to tell the rest of the family that he was ashamed of the role he had played in the war, and could feel the accusation in the eyes of the crowds every time he made the speech. I had always understood—but today I found myself glaring at him up with all the others, and when he looked at me he faltered and almost choked. He knew, too. He knew he was giving a speech that said that his own daughter deserved to die. And even though I knew he didn't mean what he was saying to the district…I hated him, then, as much as I knew how to hate anyone.

And then Lacy came up to the stage with her unnatural electric blue hair piled up in curls on top of her head like this was some kind of fancy event, and her disgustingly excessive amounts of make-up, and her tattooed cheeks. Whatever could be said about the cruelty of the Capitol, sometimes I wondered if maybe the worst part of them was their sense of fashion. It was like they weren't even human anymore. She talked about what an honor it was to be there even though everyone knew she was only there for the fun of watching all the blood and gore from the inside, and then my dad handed her the slip of paper that had two names on it. My name, and the name of a boy. Everyone knew who the girl tribute was, so there was no surprise as she read it off and I was forced to march up onto the platform. Rose Pallas. Maybe I should have forced my parents to legally change my name between the time of the vote and the reaping—then when they read off the name, it wouldn't be _my_ name. But that wouldn't work—they would just change the name on the slip of paper, too. But who was the boy tribute? There was actually a question of that one. My brother was too old to be in the reaping, so it wasn't like they could vote him in. I tried not to look nervous or curious as I stood there wondering if maybe I could surreptitiously glance at the name while Lacy shook my hand. But there was no point—she read it immediately. And I was stunned.

"Clovvis Sempry." Clovvis was a natural-born protector—the kid that was always getting in trouble for fighting when actually, if you watched what happened, he was only defending other people. He didn't _enjoy_ hurting people—but he could. And once you got to know him, he was a great guy. Loyal, friendly, and not afraid to tell you flat out when you were being stupid. _Everyone_ loved Clovvis. Why the hell would they choose him?

And then it hit me, as I was forced to shake hands with him and I saw steely defiance on his face. The Hunger Games was a fight to the death. They hated me—it would be so convenient for them if I died, and this was their perfect chance to make that happen. But they _did_ want a victor, didn't they? Because the victor's district would be fed for a year and everyone would be happy. Clovvis could fight—and he wasn't afraid to hurt people when he had to. He would fight to the death in this arena, and as far as I could see, he would come out on top. District Eleven had given _me_ up willingly. _I_ was just a body to be thrown into the fray. Clovvis was the one they would be rooting for.

It was a terrible realization. I had spent hours every day trying to figure out a strategy to overcome the odds and survive. But it was all for nothing, now. I wasn't meant to live past this. It was already over. It was officially impossible for me to survive.

Lacy led us away to the rooms where our families and friends would see us one last time, and I prepared myself for the rest of my life.

It wasn't that hard, really. After all—it would only be a few more weeks.

* * *

**A/N** Hey guys, sorry it took so long to update. I know this is probably the same excuse everyone else uses at times like this but—I was **really** busy. With, you know, school and stuff, and driving halfway across the country to go to a wedding over the weekend. So I hope you all like it and I'll try to write a little quicker this round! ^.^


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